No. 2

Writer’s Workshop: Tom Manley


Selections from Tom Manley at the writer's retreat at Lee Kelly's studio

Selections from the Bomber Restaurant Menu

Two Eggs Over Very Uneasy
Wingman Scramble
Bomb Door Gin Martini
Welcome to the Club Sandwhich

Isaac Babel

Isaac Babel,
My heart is indicted—
by your story—by
the image of dead flies
in the inkwell—by
a rhythm of words:
“I am innocent. I have never been a spy.
I accused myself falsely…
I am asking for only one thing—
Let me finish my work.”

The Rexroth’s dead
If Phillip Roth’s
Child is

(To the love prompt)

I love the cottonwood fluffs
flying sorties in the blue above your barn;

And the coolness of the air
settling on my face and hands.

I loved the fennel breath warmth of afternoons,
walking above the herringbone sea in Monterosso;

And the fire glow of morning
as it spread like copper over the bedroom ceiling.

I love the perfect circles made by insects
on the black surface of the pond;

And the way you sing to yourself and
the children you make your own.

I love the sound of the old silver clock
moving stiffly like an oldman with a walking stick;

And watching you sleep, arm curled above your head
face smooth with peace and promise;

I love when you ask me to dance,
holding out your tiny hands;

And how you sway your body to the music
Trusting completely that I will not let you fall.

by Tom Manley

— Posted on 06/25 at 12:04 PM

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